Prison Wars: An Inside Account of How the Apocalypse Happened By Martin Sanger. Martin SängerЧитать онлайн книгу.
in my life, momentarily became the center of attention.
Looking back on it, I am surprised at how quickly I adjusted to the other side of reporter’s inquiries. I had been on the querying side of many of these feeding frenzies. It had always seemed very serious. But looking at all of these petitioners, they appeared comical. I felt a sense of superiority and power as I played bigwig.
As I had seen many folks do I told them that I was not authorized to give them further information. I wanted to keep them interested by giving tidbits. I told them my name and that I was Quentin’s official publicist. But they quickly figured out that they already had a huge story and that I wasn’t going to share my scoop.
I’ve never seen a press conference clear out so quickly. This was a hot item and folks were all rushing to their outlets to make their report. My article due date, Fortune Magazine being a monthly, was weeks away. But I left quickly too.
I left because I realized I had a lot of thinking to do. No, it was worse than that. I was dizzy with confused feelings. My first reaction to Prison Wars was terror and repulsion. The terror of the idea mixed with the lingering rush of the attention I had received, pride in the way I handled myself, total disbelief that this was happening and a million questions about where this might lead, all fought with each other for attention in my thoughts.
The nearly painful sensation that there wasn’t room enough in my head, heart and stomach for all of these conflicting impulses didn’t die down for hours. Finally, I told myself that if I didn’t take this opportunity, someone else would take it. I reasoned that leaving it would be running away from the biggest opportunity I would ever run into. As a human, I couldn’t be a part of this adventure. But as a journalist, I had to go where the action was.
That was a fateful night. As a person who could see the potentially destructive effects and morally questionable nature of Prison Wars, perhaps I should have stood for my principles. I cannot deny the fact that I sold out my morals for opportunity. I had no idea how horrible the outcome would be, but anyone with any sense could tell that it wasn’t a good development for our culture.
As it turned out, my personal writing ability and lingering residue of common sense are what have enabled this very report. Saying that I foresaw my ability to write against this tragedy with intimate knowledge, and thus provide a moral worth to my actions, as a justification of my efforts, would be a lie. I just plain sold out my morals for opportunity.
I have blood on my hands. My failure to distinguish between infamy and fame, my lack of shame, by making money off of horror, the words I wrote and spoke without thinking about the ultimate implications of my words, all implicate me. All of these things have tattooed my hands with indelible guilt that makes my failure to kill myself an affront to decency.
But, ultimately, for this report to have accomplished any good you have to look at the blood on your own hands. Did you watch Prison Wars? Did you fight with people who did? How many times have you sold out your morals for convenience?
Anyhow, you didn’t know. I didn’t know. But, I pray that whatever social order finally emerges from the chaos that now engulfs us will be cognizant of the importance of distinguishing between a healthy culture and a pathological one. I hope they tell their children about what happened to us.
CHAPTER THREE – HOME LIFE
I pretty much stayed up all night watching television. Prison Wars was the top story on every network within an hour. All night long, it dominated the news channel talk shows.
Callers asked all the questions you’d expect. Less than half of those who called in considered it a good idea. Of the supporters, about ninety-nine percent were male. More than half of the anchors editorialized their disapproval and said we ought to do what we could to stop it. A significant number of people, I’m glad to report, expressed alarm.
It was predictable that everyone would want to know more about the man behind the program. Some networks had slapped together bios of Quentin. Many, I’m proud to say, quoted my original profile of Quentin in Fortune magazine. As will happen, his old associates and supposed lovers showed up to spill dirt.
It was now apparent why he was cultivating me as a publicist. Speculation was rampant for the next few days. Who could believe that someone could pull off such a seemingly impossible arrangement? Surely this person was perverse. But just as certainly he must have been both rich and a genius (a combination that provides fascination for both men and women).
In fact, Quentin’s life had been rather unremarkable. He went to the same local high school, Palisades High, that his children were slated to go to. His picture in his senior year yearbook wasn’t distinguishable from all the other blonde, shoulder length, stringy haired boys of his generation and neighborhood.
At UCLA he majored in business and finance and graduated in the middle of his class. He did, he claimed, “Enough to not get kicked out.”
Following Quentin’s undistinguished graduation, he started his own venture capital company. His company did have the strange distinction of mostly funding the development of products for the toy market. His company, ‘Play On,’ developed the “Radio Doll” and the “Kiddie Credit Cards Buying Clubs.” Other than that, his career had been entirely pedestrian.
In response to all of the vitriolic condemnation of him as the incarnation of evil, I had to produce sympathetic humanized depictions of him. This homespun-style spin about him was primarily intended to protect his family from attack. He really did worry about them being vilified.
But more practically, he saw his wholesome image as the best defense he had against his critics. I don’t think he anticipated the strength of the opposition to Prison Wars. He was visibly shaken by the hostile responses at the press conference.
His remarks about the inheritability of evil didn’t play well in the media. His flip remarks about the fate of the prisoners didn’t convince people that he cared much for individual lives. Prison Wars incensed all the human rights groups at once. His rich children not going to jail put the spotlight on the fact that the prisons are mostly filled with people that come from poverty.
The only shining light in his series of responses at the first press conference were those about his family and taking personal responsibility for them. While denouncing the plan, due to the sanctity of life, a few right-leaning commentators agreed that family cohesion should be the basis of our morals. And, even Prison Wars’ critics could see that his love for his family was real.
Creating positive spin about his having a warm and tight knit family wasn’t too hard to do. He had as normal and happy a family life as I had ever witnessed. His wife, Melissa, and he had been married 13 years when I met him. Their older son, Justin was a sixth grade soccer player and Samantha was a normal third grader with a passion for ballet lessons. They were very close to the ideal American family.
Life had always been easy for Quentin. No major setbacks had marred his life. Well fed and cared for his entire life, he never had occasion to even develop a mean streak or an instinct for protection. His was a stress-free existence. And this ease and uncomplicated sense of well-being pervaded the feeling of his family.
Quentin’s laugh lines weren’t there due to smugness and they weren’t fake. People picked up on that. Early on I figured out that one source of his happiness was the extreme joy he took in small things. Quentin was truly happy. I miss and am still uplifted by thinking of how much pleasure he would derive from his habit of picking up little items and looking at them.
But I correct myself – they weren’t little things to him. Quentin liked to breathe, to hear people’s voices, having eyes to see snippets of life. During every conversation his demeanor silently said, “Isn’t it fantastic to be alive.” His presence made you aware of how little you appreciated your own existence. I planted this personal magnetism angle into nearly all articles, press releases, and inquiry responses I wrote on his behalf.
My spin job was also intended to protect Quentin’s mental sanity. As I had already mentioned, his charm came from his relaxed low-key demeanor. Outside of the moments